Taste of Medicine
by Nate The Ape
Summary: After Kong's capture, a heartbroken, furious, and drunk Jack Driscoll strikes back at Carl in an appalling way. Plotless, nasty rapefic that'll be cont. on Adult Fanfiction.


**First of all, I must say that if you've read any of my fics before, you probably know that whenever violence or any other of the darker aspects of life pops up in my writing, I do not flinch from portraying or even _leaping _into it in all its frank brutality. This doesn't mean I'm some disturbed sicko who gets off on writing about violence, aggression, suffering, brutality, and so on of course-far from it. Rather, I consider my fanfics to generally be a celebration of life-even if it's in the realm of fantasy!-and definitely the happy, good things about it! I enjoy and take as much pride in writing scenes of friendship, love, playfulness, and the beauty of nature as I do ones with death, blood, violence and anguish. A good writer though, also needs to be honest and admit that existence is always a checkered business, and then be honest with how they show and tell the readers about that dark side. You're kidding them and insulting their intelligence if you don't.**

**Now that that's out of the way...**

**This is a fic where I've gone ultra-mega-deep into that darkness, deeper than ever before. Why did I write such a disturbing, nasty thing, that deals with something as ugly and cruel as rape? I honestly don't know, other than it wouldn't go away and I had to get it out of my system. I feel both relieved and revolted thinking about what I've put on paper.**

**This work has an M rating for a very good reason, so if you don't think you can stand the imagery, go read something else-and what's gonna be on (www&adultfanfiction&net) is even nastier. **

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In the Venture's hold, now emptied of the majority of its steel cages, the sweaty, pungent reek of gorilla and cavernous grunting rumbles enveloped Carl Malone Denham, fiercely arguing with a Brazilian sailor about how often and to what degree Kong should be allowed to wake up in order to eat and drink.

"Look Hipolito," he snapped, "I've worked with monkeys and apes plenty of times before. No matter how sore they may be at you or the human race in general, you give em' a choice between biting someone or food, they'll stuff their bellies first! That's just how dumb animals behave!"

Clutching an elephant gun in his arms, Hipolito Quadro's stormy scowl, permeated with hatred for both the producer and the unconscious ape titan behind them, never wavered. He had been chosen by Englehorn to stand guard at the entrance to the hold, and if absolutely necessary, put Kong down if he ever awoke and got out of control.

_That _was a possibility which Carl prayed with all his might would never happen! Yet, at the very least, Kong had to wake up long enough to drink. And you couldn't keep such a massive animal drugged and immobile for so long without causing permanent long-term damage to their nerves and muscles, he dimly recalled.

Hipolito shook his head grimly. "I think you're a mistaken _homem _indeed, _tolo,_" he responded. "You say that you know the habits of _macacos_? Well, I know them far better. You can bet your life that they understand revenge, and that this monster"- he paused to indicate Kong behind them-"does too, and will take it if he gets half the chance! He must be either knocked out or _inoperante _if he's going to be in this hold!"

Unbending yet calm, Carl shrugged. "Well, as for the revenge issue, that's easy to deal with Hipolito," he glibly replied. "Just don't have me, Jack, Ann, or anyone else that he reacts to or is furious with down here with this ape when he wakes up enough to have lunch!" he said, stretching out his hands.

"We all seem to have made him plenty _irritado _with us already in the village and on the _praia_, so do you seriously think that will make any difference, _tolo_?" the Brazilian barked.

Brushing off the insult, the producer was hit by yet another of his brilliant flashes of inspiration at that moment.

"Yeah pal, it _will _make quite a bit of difference. Because of that, now this big ape knows what guns and bullets are. Now he has respect for them and what these things can do!" the movie producer declared, pointing at the elephant gun in Hipolito's hands.

Hipolito snorted, a sound that was at once full of scorn and amusement. "Respect? Respect! I've never seen any beast that was _less _respectful of _espingardas_ than this giant ape, even as people were putting bullets into him."

"Ah, but that's because he was still on familiar ground, and so utterly focused on Miss Darrow-"

"That _prostituta ingrato_," Hipolito quietly snarled to himself, casting his deep brown gaze upward and through the lower deck.

"-that he didn't _care_ about the damage and pain," Carl pointed out, ignoring the Brazilian's interruption. "Now that Ann's out of his sight though, and he's clueless as to where he is, things are suddenly different."

Now Hipolito wasn't lashing back or resisting, but simply listening to him. That meant he was open to ideas, as long as Carl shoved them out into the open cautiously. Great!

"So here's a plan I doped out," Carl offered. "How about if whenever we allow Kong to wake for long enough to eat and drink, you stand a safe distance away from him and keep that nice big gun pointed at his face? He'll get the picture very well, and as long as he's still too dopey from the chloroform to move quickly, you'll be perfectly fine."

"You're expecting me to be pretty damn cavalier with my life Denham," Hipolito stated sneeringly. "I don't care if I had a _canhao_ at hand, or how slowed that ape would be. If he became angry or made an unexpected move, no man would have a _acaso em inferno_!"

"Then let's restrict his movements so you _do _have a chance," Carl proposed. "Remember the possibility I said earlier of ordering ahead to the nearest steelworks for custom-made shackles which would be huge enough to fit him?"

"Yes, and I'll tell you again that it's one of the most ridiculous things I've ever heard," the Brazilian replied, laughing in derision. "You're even more of a _bobo_ than I thought if you think any chains will hold that!"

"Maybe I am," Carl said coolly, brows furrowing, "but what if Kong has his ankles shackled right to the floor of this hull to keep from lunging for his warden? And what if he can see that the warden is fully prepared to get an itchy trigger finger if the ape gets overexcited?"

Hipolito thoughtfully looked over his shoulder at Kong, a sable furred hill, then skeptically at Carl, once, twice. "That may actually be a reasonably workable setup," he finally conceded. "I'll let your ape come out of his stupor every so often to take food and water, even move around a bit."

"Thanks pal," Carl smiled in relieved glee, reaching forward in an attempt to pump the sailor's cinnamon brown hand. "You'll be doing a greater service for human enjoyment and science than you'll ever know by helping keep this mighty ape alive and healthy."

The Brazilian only coldly looked at the producer's stubby-fingered hand before lightly slapping it away. "I'm **not **your pal, selfish _rato_," he growled. "You're no one's _amigo _by any stretch on this ship now!" Carl drew back, miffed, as Hipolito added, "And then there's the question of whether Englehorn will go along with this plan too. He's past the end of his rope with you Carl, and I don't blame-"

"Okay!!" Carl shouted, voice ricocheting off the hold walls. "I get it! You all hate my guts for trying to salvage something out of this horrible disaster, making the deaths of your fellow crewmen still be for a worthwhile cause, and giving you a chance to share in the fame and fortune!"

Hipolito paused, and blinked. The scowl of hardly controlled anger was replaced by worried confusion. "Well, I didn't quite mean it like that, _senhor_," the sailor amended, a little apologetically. "It's just that we've…"

"Look, since you're in such _better_ graces with Englehorn than I at the moment, you'll be the one to tell him about the system we agreed on for when Kong needs to regain some of his senses and to have him contact the steelworks in Batavia. His harpoon wound should keep him down until then."

"Do that," Carl continued, "and I might give you additional cash-if I decide to give you any at all now for your rudeness," he threatened.

"I will, I will," Hipolito frantically panted. "I'll do whatever I can to convince him to approve of it and send the order, even if it takes all night! Just please don't withdraw my check! Please!"

"I'll reconsider it," Carl said neutrally, giving the apprehensive Brazilian a slow, staged appraisal to make the man sweat a bit more before turning and walking back up the stairs, out of the hold. _Threaten even the crankiest, sharpest-tongued fella with yanking the money, and it's amazing how fast they repent and obey, _he thought with smug pride at his cleverness. _Almost like plucking berries-usually_.

At the first step, looking out into the hallway, Carl paused. He knew that he was the most despised man on The Venture now, and there'd already been several times over the past 2 ½ days after Kong was brought on board when a crewman had taken a poke at him as he'd climbed out of the hold's musty darkness.

There was no crouched shadow. No sound of eager, muffled breathing either. Deciding it was safe, Carl stepped into the hallway and trod down to his cabin. On reaching it, he was surprised to see that the door was well ajar. This was somewhat perplexing, since the producer could've sworn that he'd closed it tight before going to talk to Hipolito. Perhaps Englehorn or Preston, now occupying one of the all too abundant empty cabins, had come looking to talk to him, found he wasn't there, and left, forgetting to shut the door. Oh well, it was no skin off his knees, Carl thought dismissively as he entered the room and walked over to the couch, where he sat down and slipped off his shoes. After Skull Island, his tortured feet needed all the rest and open air they could get.

First though, he'd best shut the door. But as Carl started to get up to do that, focused more on the carpet than anything else, the door shut on its own with an explosive BANG!

"Awp!" Carl yelped as he jumped, startled. It was then, as his gaze snapped up and forward to the door, he saw that it hadn't been ajar due to forgetfulness, nor slammed on its own. A man had been waiting in the V formed by the door and the inside wall.

It was his former friend, Jack Driscoll, holding an almost empty bottle of Red Label whisky in his extensive left hand. The slight weave to his stance and the droop of his already hooded eyelids, salmon pink from alcohol, spoke of how the writer had clearly poured the balance down his gullet.

In those first three seconds where neither of the men moved, Carl noted with alarm that Jack's eyes were as narrowed and flinty as a hawk's, and his thin lips were lightly pulled back, yet tightened too, in an eddying grimace of rage. He meant murder, maybe literally.

Carl had been privately expecting this moment ever since Kong's capture. Yet that didn't stop his heart from vaulting somewhere up into his lower jaw now that the moment had come, and frantically looking for a way out.

Putting on an innocent why-can't-we-just-settle-this-like-civilized-fellas- smile that he hoped would appease the lanky man beginning to stalk towards him, Carl nervously crooned, "Um, hi Jack! How ya doing!"

"Mad as a wet hen," the playwright snarled back, the whiskey lending a slurred, croaking, froglike quality to his already nasal voice. He hurled the glass bottle against the carpet, where it more or less shattered into three jagged curved plates. The small amount of scotch remaining burst outward in amber shafts before flopping onto the carpet and soaking in, as if it too, was terrified by the writer's rage. "Especially at lying, greedy sons of bitches like you!!" Far from being comical, his faint swaying only served to make him even more menacing, like a cobra ready to strike, as Jack strode toward the producer.

"Jack, you're drunk out of your head," Carl said, a harried attempt to divert the other man's anger while he backed away. "I just _suggested _the plan to Englehorn, and he's the real one res-"

Then Jack Driscoll was leaping at him like a cougar, and Carl Denham could only bring his forearm up to guard his face. As if in slow motion, he felt, then saw, Jack's long, elegant fingers grip, then tighten around his arm and yank it down. Then he saw the writer's other hand, formed into a fist, rushing at him.

Carl's head snapped back as he took the jab on his chin. Even though a part of the producer told him that Jack was very much in the right to be doing this, a furious indignation and the instinct to defend himself squelched it. _Okay Jack, you wanna brawl? Let's brawl pal!!_

Carl socked Jack, half a head taller than he was, in the gut. He heard the writer grunt in pain and surprise at the blow. Then Jack swung a right hook, getting Carl in the side of the head. He responded by grabbing the shoulders of Jack's shirt, and began to yank the other man to him, intending to kick the writer's legs out from under him and toss him to the ground, where he could be restrained.

Even in his marinated state however, Jack saw what Carl meant to do, and wrenched up and away. Face filled with pure ire, he flicked out one of his longer legs, and caught Carl right in the marbles. Doubling up in agony, Carl gave a sort of whinnying moan as he heard Jack smirk from somewhere up above, "You've never fought fair with me, so why should I fight fair with you?"

Forcing away the searing pain in his genitals, Carl looked up at his opponent and snarled, "Go to hell Jack."

"No Carl, you will," Jack stonily replied, slapping Denham across the face.

Carl yelled in explosive anger at the insult, the anger at how Jack saw him through, at what his self-obsession had done to his soul, and charged Jack Driscoll, aiming to clothesline him at chest height. But before he could, Jack went into a squat and bent forward. One of his hands darted out, swift as a mantis striking, to clutch Carl's wrist in an iron grip. Then, to Carl's puzzled shock, Jack grabbed his wrist with another hand, and rising, used his body as a fulcrum to flip the heavier producer off his feet and into a wall with a crash.

Lying on his back, Carl had no time to even fully process what had happened before Jack was on top of him, using his knees to pin down the shorter man's legs. To his incredulous horror, he saw Jack's mitts of hands, the hands of a wordsmith and the last pair one would ever consider being used as tools of murder, spreading apart like butterfly wings and descending fast for his fat throat.

The thought that a trusted, normally biddable and placid friend was going to kill him sent a knife of horror through Carl Denham's soul, and he squealed, "For cripes sake, don't do it Jack! I'm sorry, I'm sorry for what I ever did to you or what's happened to you on this trip! Don't kill me! Englehorn needs every man he can to keep the ship runn-GACK!!"

Then the playwright's fingers were clutching his neck, and remorselessly squeezing, squeezing like a python. Jack gave a slow, skewed, closed smile that was itself serpentine in nature as he silkily yet icily hissed, "Don't worry Carl. Even though **pigs** are killed all the time, I'm not going to kill you. I won't stoop to your level or cut into the Captain's workforce. But there are some forms of revenge far worse, and more fitting, than death."

Frantically, Carl Denham bucked and thrashed against Jack's strangling grip as his lungs cried out for air. The pressure in his skull mounted until he thought his eyes would pop from his skull, a silver mist creeping into his vision from all quadrants. In the center of it all, just inches from his face, Jack stared back, his own eyes emitting the piercing, malachite lightening that an enraged grizzly's are said to hold. The silver mist became black, and expanded to fill more of his universe as Carl began to slip away.

For a few last moments, as if framed against heavy black velvet, Jack's eyes, now delighted and eager, were the last thing to register on Carl's failing brain before it shut down.

When Carl came to, he was aware of a bright light shining above him, through his eyelids. _Light? Did Jack kill me after all, and now I'm in heaven?_ Then he felt the raw, scratchy pain in his throat as he gasped for air like a landed perch, and the slick, cool sensation of leather pressing against his back. Swiftly rising above that were several crimson dashes of slicing pain from the flesh above his breastbone.

He sucked in oxygen gratefully and massaged his throat with his right hand. Opening his eyes, the first thing that registered in Carl's vision was his wristwatch. It indicated that he'd only been senseless for 2-3 minutes.

As Carl climbed higher into the realm of awareness, he raised his head-and realized something so disturbing that he immediately wished he hadn't. He was lying supine on the leather sofa in his quarters, stark naked. His shirt had been cut off and removed with a broken piece of the whiskey bottle, which explained the shallow slices in the skin of his chest. His belt, pants, shoes, and most terrifying of all, his underwear, had all been pulled off and put in a heap on the couch on the other side of the room.

Denham's panic increased even further when he saw that there was another man in the room with him, seated in a cross-legged position on the further arm of the couch.

It was Jack Driscoll.

Still drunk as a fish, and now clad only in cotton boxer shorts.

On seeing that Carl had noticed him at last, Jack gave a slow, sick, lopsided grin before saying in satisfaction, "Good. Nice to see you're awake again Carl. After all, it's no use punishing someone for their misdeeds if they don't know what's going on."

Then the producer began to quiver in helpless fear. He was still too weak from being choked to resist or even move, and knew it all too well. But he could speak.

"What are you going to do to me Jack?" he whined, voice raspy as sandpaper.

Unfolding his legs, the playwright laughed in that sludgy tone as he got off the sofa's arm. "Things someone should've done to you a long time ago," he responded. "Things that'll put you back in your rightful place, and that'll be fun, satisfying, and refreshing for me, but not in the least for you," Jack ominously continued as he slowly walked to the side of the sofa.

"Jack, stop," Carl weakly begged. "Have mercy. If you stay your hand, I'll give you or buy you anything you ask of me when we get back to New York. A new car, a closet full of formal suits. Your own house, your own _theat_-"

In a flash, Jack was pressing his forearm hard across Carl's already compressed throat.

"_Don't you __**dare **__begin with your horseshit promises, you goddamn bastard!!_" he bellowed. Drawing back, the writer took his arm from Carl's throat as he seethed and raged, prodding his finger right up to the other man's eyeballs, "You told me one of the most _**vicious**_ and _**manipulative **_lies imaginable to take advantage of me, all so you could have a pet writer to cover for you because you were _**too goddamn lazy**_ to get in touch with another one and _**too irresponsible and selfish**_ to accept that I completed for you what I completed for you and you had to fill in the blanks! Youtook me away from my _**new play**_, from my _**job**_, from my _**apartment**_, from my _**pals **_and my _**family**_, from my _**theatre**_, from my _**diners**_, from _**goddamned **__**EVERYTHING!!**_"

"And what's even worse, while you and all the others have nice sunlit, comfortable cabins," the playwright screamed on, "I get consigned to this miserable cot in a shit-smelling, dark, lonely _**dungeon**_ of a lion cage!! Do you know how degrading and humiliating that was Carl?" he snapped, voice vibrating with fury. "_Do you_?"

Timorously, uncertain if it would make Jack even hotter under the collar, Carl panted, "Jack, Englehorn was the one who gave you the place in the hold. I had nothing to do with that. You could've shared a cabin with one of the other sailors if you'd raised Cain loudly enough."

"But you're the worthless _porcus ex grege diaboli _who gave him cause to put me in that humiliating hellhole in the first place!!" Jack violently snapped back. Then Jack Driscoll gave a great, shuddering breath, and paused for a few protracted moments, grimly regarding a helpless Carl.

When he spoke, it was in a whispering, calculated, gravelly manner, like the way in which a tomcat might speak to a mouse. "And now," Jack droned, "I'm going to do unto others as he did unto me. I'll teach you about humiliation and control Carl," he said darkly, slipping one of his hands down to the waistband of his boxers-and pulling down.

Eyes saucering, a sickening, queasy horror ate through Carl Denham as he watched Jack's hand relentlessly tug the white cotton fabric toward the floor, sliding over the tan skin of his thighs, legs, and feet. Despite the massive amounts of whiskey he'd imbibed, Jack was almost graceful as he grabbed Carl's chunky legs and firmly raised them up into the air.

Once more, the playwright used the feebly struggling producer's weight against him to turn his body laterally on the couch, so that Carl was now in a prone position. It was the disbelieving shock as much as the apoxia that kept Denham ineffectual and helpless. This was not happening! This was impossible! Jack just _didn't _get drunk, and he wouldn't take revenge on even his worst enemy _this _way! Now he could no longer see Jack, but still heard him, springing onto the sofa a few seconds later in a sideways motion.

It was only when Carl heard Jack smoothly telling him, "We're going to see who's truly the master here, and who's just a son of a bitch," as his legs were raised once more and parted, the writer's thighs pressing warmly down onto his own, that he understood how grimly, horridly real and grave his position was.

_My God, he's going to rape me!! Jack Driscoll is going to rape me!_

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For the sake of you readers and so my account doesn't get deleted, we'll cut to black right there. The rest of this fic will be posted under my account name at AdultFanFiction, which is **_Spidermonkey96_**, fairly soon. And yeah, in Jackson's Kong, Carl is sure one fucking selfish bastard who is clearly the major villian. The original Carl Denham though, from the orginal 1933 Kong, is a respectable, adventure loving prince of a guy. There is no real villian in the '33 film, except maybe the army or the T. Rex.

Since Hipolito (_pronounced hee-po-lee-to )_ is from Brazil, his native language would be Portugese, so I've sprinkled Portugese words throughout his dialouge. I'm also aware that the Brazilian dialect of Portugese is noticeably different from what is spoken in Portugal, but you can only do so much with online translators. I tried folks.

Anyhow, in order of speech: **homem**-man, **tolo**-fool, **inoperante**-dead, **macacos**-monkeys (Duh!), **irritado**-enraged, **praia**-beach, **espingardas**-guns, **prostituta ingrata**-ungrateful bitch, **canhao**-cannon, **acaso em inferno**-chance in hell, **rato**-rat, and **amigo**-friend (Duh!)


End file.
